by Lauren Asher
Liam holds first place for the first few laps. We play a game between the two of us, me trying to pull up to his side and him being aggressive on the turns. Sweat trickles down my neck as my skin warms from the heat of the engine. I take a couple sips of my drink to stay hydrated because nothing is worse than getting woozy as I drive around at top speeds.
I narrowly avoid clipping Liam’s tire at one of the sharper turns. He pulls away from the curve, flashing me a glove-clad middle finger. His rattled state makes me chuckle. The car continues hauling ass down the racetrack as I hit a main straight. An opportunity for overtaking presents itself when Liam lets down his defenses for a split second. I pass him at one of the turns. My foot presses on the accelerator, allowing my car to pick up speed and race down the straights, leaving Liam in my rearview mirror. Too bad, so sad.
Fans wave their Spanish flags and big face cutouts of Santiago in the air. They blur past me as I continue down the track.
Negative thoughts fill my head about the crap my dad said yesterday. I don’t want to be a teammate who steps on others, trying to one-up them every time, acting like my father. No one likes a piece of shit. The type who takes everything, not caring how it affects the other person. Santi’s had a rough go starting out this season. His rashness fucks me up, but he wants to win as much as anyone else.
Losing in Austin would suck. How disappointing—all those fans showing up, hoping you represent them well but falling short.
Fuck me, I hate thinking while racing.
After a pit stop, I make my way back up the race ranks from fourth to first again. I hold onto my first-place spot for another twenty-six laps.
“Noah, Santiago’s gaining speed behind you. He’s in second now. For the love of God, don’t crash into each other at a turn.” My radio relays the team principal’s message.
“Copy. What happened to Liam?” I growl at his words because I’m not crashing into anyone today.
“Don’t worry about that now. Santiago is behind you by about five seconds. Be careful not to let him overtake you.”
“Got it, thanks.”
My defensive position at the head of the pack takes minimal effort to keep. Blurring crowds welcome me as I pass the starting point again, a wave of red and gold colors flying by me, matching the Spanish flag the Alatorres had earlier. Their cheers get louder as Santiago passes them while he closes the gap behind me. A few seconds away from me now. If I were Santiago, I would do anything to win this race.
He tails me the whole time, waiting for me to slip up.
The image of Maya and her family coming all this way to see him succeed flies through my mind. Shit. I try to push away the thoughts, but the invasive images don’t let up, accompanied by sounds of Maya’s laughs and cheers. My hands grip the steering wheel as I think about the sacrifices his parents made for his career. Sacrifices Maya made living in his shadow. Never being one to steal the spotlight, preferring to dance around in the dark while her brother gets all the attention. Unfortunately for her, people like me thrive in the shadows.
Fuck. I never think this much during a race, like ever, because thinking makes me stupid. Thinking leads me to come up with my rash, selfless plan in the first place.
A fucking anomaly.
On the sixtieth lap, I let down my defenses more. I do it slowly, making sloppier turns, allowing more space for anyone to overtake me, while I still stay in control of my car. Messing up too quickly would draw negative attention to myself.
“Noah, is everything all right? Santiago’s gaining speed. He wants to overtake you. Make your turns tighter.”
“Copy. I think something’s off with the car, but I can’t figure it out. Do you see anything on the screens?” I sure as shit know there is nothing wrong, but I have to milk it to the point where I believe my own words. Fans can tune into my team radio via live television.
“Nothing over here. Can you describe what’s happening? We can figure it out for you.” My engineer sounds hopeful.
“Not really. I think there’s something wrong with the steering wheel. It feels loose.” The lie leaves my lips easily as I make another bad turn.
“Got it. Just keep going and we’ll figure it out later.” They all buy it, my authentic display working on the team. I still want to land on the podium anyway.
By lap sixty-four, I make worse turns that leave myself open for an overtaking. To no one’s surprise, Santiago passes me at one of the corners, rattling my car as he zooms by.
My lips lift at the corners.
The crowd goes wild, releasing deafening roars when Santiago crosses the finish line first, red smoke billowing up into the air from canisters. I solidify my second place on the podium when I get the next checkered flag.
Better luck next time.
Santiago’s family celebrates behind the barrier next to the podiums as they watch us on the stage. His parents light up the entire stage with their smiles alone. Maya has decked herself out in Bandini gear, with a Spanish flag wrapped around her as she dances around to the music streaming from the stage speakers. Watching her happy makes my heart clench like a chick.
Usually, when I meet a woman, the first thing that attracts me is a set of perky tits, a tight ass, and seductive lips. But for the first time in my life, I’m interested in someone for a different reason. With Maya, the most beautiful thing about her is how her eyes light up with happiness when she grins, an infectious smile that makes my lips turn up every time. Her beam is hands down one of my favorite things. A bubble of positive energy, dancing in circles without a care in the world.
Does she have a great body? Sure.
But at this moment, her smile draws me to her. I want to keep them all to myself and bottle them up for the bad days. Don’t get me started on her laughs. I feel them all the way down to my cock, every single time.
Champagne sprays all around me, but I barely pay attention, too enamored by her.
And fuck, it scares me.
I smirk one last time at the sight of her before turning back to the rest of the crowd. They chant my name, and although it feels great to hear them, nothing beats the smile on Maya’s face as she watches us.
My dad paces the motorhome’s lobby after the winners’ ceremony. He follows me to the private suite area, his agitation evident in his jerky steps. The sounds of our shoes against the smooth floor distract me. I pull him away from others because we don’t need an audience for his explosion. He enters the suite first, and before I have a chance to close the door, he shoves me toward the center of the room. His dirty move catches me off guard. My feet trip on the slick tile, but I right myself before hitting a couch.
So this is how today is going to go.
“What the fuck, Noah? You call that racing?” His voice echoes off the walls. Someone’s cranky about my second-place win.
“Last time I checked we called it racing. But maybe the concepts have changed since you last drove. It’s been a while.”
My dad’s chest heaves up and down as his eyes dart around, wild and uncontrolled. It’s the same look he gave me every time I failed to land on a shitty kart podium or crashed my F2 car. A glare he saved for our alone time in his office before he smacked my ass into the next day. Lucky for us bruises aren’t visible when you wear race suits daily. Not a single scar was left on my skin except for the mangled remains of my heart, a mistrusting organ ruined by the man before me. A cliché of the worst kind.
“I don’t sponsor this team to see a shitty performance like that from my own son. I don’t buy your crap with the steering wheel. All the tests came back fine; nothing seemed loose.” His voice gets louder as his agitation grows. My face remains flat because I don’t feed into his anger. The fallout from his rage is a lesson I don’t wish to revisit anytime soon, at least not in this lifetime.
I look over his shoulder and catch the suite door ajar, a shocked Maya staring back at me through the crack with a hand covering her mouth. Acting like Spanish Nancy Drew piecing together what
I did.
Just a bad day in racing. Steering wheel problems happen all the time.
“There was something off. Hopefully they find out what happens before the next race, that way I can get first place next time.”
“Bullshit! Don’t try to pull something over on me, acting all coy. You know I basically fund your career here. People would kill for your seat. I could replace you like that.” He snaps his fingers.
“Go ahead. I’m sure McCoy would offer me a seat in a heartbeat. That team probably pays more than Bandini does anyway. Wouldn’t you like that?”
A resounding crack fills the small room as my head snaps to the side. My dad fucking backhanded me. I try my hardest not to start something with him, my breaths becoming labored as my self-control teeters. Maya’s gasp and the whooshing sound in my ears make it difficult to make out any other noises.
I wipe away blood trickling down my mouth. It feels like I’m ten years old again, getting third place in a kart race, my dad pissed and taking his anger out on me. Looks like old tricks never die.
“Oh Father, I thought we were past this. You should put more meaning behind a hit like that; maybe age is getting to you.”
“I thought we were moving on from your shitty attitude, but I guess I was wrong. Fix yourself up. You look like a fucking mess.”
Thank fuck Maya has the foresight to disappear because my dad barrels through, ending our crappy conversation. I take a deep breath before looking into the hall, surprised yet relieved to find it empty, a nosy Maya long gone.
13
Maya
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
I can’t get the image out of my head of Noah’s dad hitting him because how does someone hit their thirty-year-old child?
My brain runs a million miles an hour, unable to keep up with the surplus of information. The steering wheel problems, the race, his dad freaking hitting him across the face. The way Noah’s eyes looked into mine, sad and so damn lost. It gutted me to see him like that. Stripped down to nothing more than a man with weaknesses and a fractured past. Nothing like the cocky man I see daily, unaffected and disinterested in the people around him.
My family shows up in Santi’s suite five minutes after the Slades’ fight. No one notices my silence or how my leg bounces up and down while I mull over what I saw: a family dynamic no one knows about. I took an Intro to Psych course, and I know the stats about parents hitting their kids. This is not a one-time thing, a fluke because of a messed-up steering wheel or a lost race.
Noah’s dad is a messed-up man who lives through his son.
I spend time with my family before excusing myself. Santi looks at me weirdly before returning his attention to my parents, their wide smiles bright after his success today.
I go to the kitchen and grab an ice pack, the cold plastic numbing my hand as I walk up to Noah’s suite. My stomach rolls from nerves because I don’t want to overstep after his bad day. Another deep breath expands my lungs. I wait for a moment, unsure if I should knock on his door.
I dig deep and lightly rap my knuckles.
The door opens a crack. A moody Noah looks down at me, blue eyes shadowed by a Bandini hat situated low on his face, a poor attempt at hiding his reddened skin.
“Hey, I come bearing gifts.” I jiggle the ice pack. No point in hiding what I saw earlier.
Noah pushes his door open wide, and I pass through. His suite has the same layout as Santi’s with plain white walls and red accents with Bandini's logo covering one wall. He takes a seat on one of the white couches, grabbing the extended ice pack while I take up a spot on the opposite side.
“Come to admit you suck at eavesdropping?”
My cheeks flush at his tactlessness. “Well, sorry.” Might as well apologize even though they left the door open.
“And sorry you saw that. I should have closed the door, but he surprised me for the first time in a while.” Noah’s words tug at me.
His statement is a lot to unpack, and I don’t understand why he apologizes. My head pounds as I wrap my mind around Noah’s toxic history with his dad.
“You don’t need to be sorry. He’s a total ass. You warned me a while ago, but I guess I didn’t think it was that bad.”
Noah winces as he presses the ice pack against his face. “No one knows.” He lets out a deep and shaky sigh. My stomach dips with unease at his lowered defenses, a rare sighting for someone as confident and self-assured as him.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume this isn’t the first time he’s hit you.”
Noah’s blank gaze reveals enough.
“How long has he been doing this? That’s not right. It’s not how parents should be, especially at your age. You could kick his ass into next week.”
“A while, but I’d rather no one finds out, so let’s keep it between us.”
My heart cracks at his admission. I can’t imagine growing up with someone rude, condescending, and disgustingly competitive. Hard to picture what Noah’s life was like. He puts on an image for others, but is this what he deals with once the Prix lights shut off?
Santi and I don’t share his same problems because our parents have always treated us with respect and love. Growing up without wealth could be a better option. I live a happy life, and no one holds money over my head. Not Santi, who pays for a lot of things. Even though I make money from YouTube ads and sponsorships, the funds don’t have the same weight as an F1 contract.
“I won’t tell anyone. But I don’t understand why you cover up for him.” A wave of nausea hits me as I consider how people act around his dad, idolizing him as a racing legend. Fans call Noah the American Prince. One stuck wearing a crown heavy from deceit and expectations. No matter how much Noah dislikes his dad, he lives in his legacy.
“Who would believe me? He’s a racing icon and a big sponsor for this team. People see what they want to see anyway.” His head faces up to the ceiling. Liquid from the ice pack drips onto his race suit, running down the red fabric like tears. How symbolic.
“I don’t know. Anyone. There’s always someone filming something. Cameras catch everything nowadays.”
I recognize how I saw Noah how I wanted, believing the show he puts on for everyone. Smug, overconfident, rebellious. My chest tightens at my quick judgment.
“Please leave it alone.” His voice has a sense of finality to it. I drop that part of the conversation because I don’t want to push him too far when he opens up to me.
I choose to address the second issue because I can’t help myself. “Is it true what he said? About your steering wheel?”
He lets out another deep sigh. “Don’t trust everything you hear. My dad gets pissy when I don’t place first. My steering wheel was loose, no matter what people say.” Words leave through gritted teeth.
“But you were in the lead for like forty laps. Defensiveness is your thing.”
“Maya.” His gravelly voice captures my attention, making me look up into his intense blue eyes. My name rolls off his tongue, hitting me in the heart and below the belt at once. “Drop it. Forget what he said. Your brother won the Spanish Grand Prix fair and square. You should be happy for him instead of thinking up conspiracy theories.”
His eyes dart to the side as he avoids my gaze for a second too long.
Holy shit. Noah totally threw the race. Why would he lose?
We sit together in silence. I attempt to work through these new revelations, getting lost in my own world, not noticing how he gets up and sits next to me.
He clasps my hand in his, ice pack long forgotten. My pulse quickens at the contact. I tell myself it must be because his hand is freezing from the ice, the cool touch jolting my body. It has nothing to do with our connection. Right?
I try to pull my hand away, but he holds on, his calloused fingers brushing against mine. My skin tingles where his thumb lazily rubs against my hand.
“Listen. Let’s forget what my dad said. No need to give attention to a
piece of shit who gets mad when I don’t place first. He’s irrelevant and barely shows up anymore, that is unless it’s convenient for him and his bank account.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I barely pay attention to what he says. My eyes stay pinned on his tan hand engulfing my small one, his thick thumb brushing against my bony knuckle in a mindless pattern.
The room warms as tension thickens, choking me as it wraps around my head and my heart. His silent confession about the race feels like too much between us. I don’t want to share secrets together, opening myself up even more to him, a point we can’t turn back from.
But he doesn’t need to admit anything to me. He threw his chance at winning today, from a quick gaze and a bob of his Adam’s apple. Label it a sixth sense for bullshit.
Relief fills me when his hand stops caressing mine. I finally breathe easier, gaining the mental clarity to tug my hand away.
“I better get going. I’m going to dinner with my family before the after-party. Maybe we will see you there.”
I lean over him and give him a kiss on his non-red cheek. His breath catches at the touch while my lips tingle at the contact, lingering a second too long.
I bounce out of my seat and reach for the door handle before he can react.
He remains sitting on the couch, unphased, except for a tiny lift at the corner of his mouth. If I didn’t know him then I would have missed it. But we’ve spent two months together, and I’ve been learning his ticks, the tells he gives when no one watches him.
“See you later. Thanks…for coming over. And the ice pack.” He repeats the same jiggle I did earlier. I laugh at his ridiculousness, blue eyes lighting up when they land on me.
“No problem.” I don’t bother looking over my shoulder as I softly shut the door.
Noah doesn’t show up to the main after-party. I hate to admit it feels off without him there, missing how he entertains me while Santi and Sophie are busy.
During the party, it hits me how much trouble I’m in. A cardinal sin has been broken.